


Under the Moonlight

by Halbereth



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The First Avenger, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, comfort make-outs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halbereth/pseuds/Halbereth
Summary: Bucky’s been pulled out of a living nightmare by his newly-enormous best friend. He can’t remember everything that happened in the lab, and that might be worse than being sure.Steve has rescued his best friend and nearly four hundred other men from a Hydra facility, destroying it on the way out. He’s also just learned that the most amazing woman he’s ever met is apparently dating a brilliant inventor.On the march back from Azzano, they both learn the other one’s hurting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stoven (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/gifts).



> Story written for the 2019 Captain America Reverse Big Bang, based on art and a prompt by [StovenBucket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stoven).

They were maybe four hours away from the smouldering wreckage of the Hydra factory when someone hesitantly asked Steve, “Are you really the guy from the movies?”

Steve groaned loudly. “They showed them over _here?_ ”

“Yeah, ‘course they did,” Bucky said, glad for the distraction. They were keeping up as quick a pace as possible, given the givens, but no matter how many miles they’d put between themselves and Azzano, it didn’t seem to matter to his head.

“We made those for home. For _kids,_ ” Steve said, face in his hands. Steve Rogers’ cringe looked different in Captain America’s massive body, but his mortified tone of voice was unchanged. “They never said—oh my God, no _wonder_ they hated me.”

“Who?” asked the guy who’d mentioned the movies, a short, chatty guy Bucky thought was named Foster or Farmer or something like that.

“The rest of the 107th,” Steve said, dropping his hands to reveal his red face. “The brass decided to bring the USO show over. Picked a bad first audience. On the other hand, it meant I found out what happened to all of you.”

“So you’re really the guy from the movies,” Foster said, skeptical.

“Yep.”

“Only, those were—” he floundered.

“Bad,” Steve finished dryly. “You can say it.”

“Well—  But why’d they waste you in the pictures, when you can do—when now you’re _here_ . . . .” Foster kind of trailed off. “So you’re with the USO, but you can go on a one-man rescue mission and rip doors off their hinges with one hand?”

Bucky raised his eyebrows at Steve. _Rip doors off their hinges?_ Steve really must have made short work of it getting into the main prison area. Steve’s mouth quirked and he made a tiny shrug, as though to say _yeah, I know._

“I guess what I’m asking, Captain, is who you are. Where’d you come from, anyway?”

Steve paused for a minute, like he was really thinking about. “Most of that’s classified,” he said finally. “What I can tell you is that I really was here with a USO show, and I went AWOL to find you all.”

Foster looked at him with a blend of skepticism and respect. Steve eyed him right back. Bucky knew that look, knew it intimately: _What, you don’t think I’m up for it?_ “Foster,” he broke in, “didn’t Jones send you over here for a reason?”

“Oh. Right.” All business again, Foster turned to Steve and rattled off some report about labeling the basic controls in all the Hydra tanks in English so anyone could take over, just in case (and so they wouldn’t fire the ray guns by accident). He didn’t seem to have any problem making his report to Captain America, renegade actor or no.

For a moment, Bucky almost felt like smiling.

~

“Hey,” Bucky said, later that afternoon. They were making surprisingly good time, considering everyone was bone-tired, a lot of them were wounded, and they collectively only had a fuzzy idea of where they were relative to Allied territory. Steve had had a good look at a map before he left, but he’d gotten there after jumping out of a plane under fire in the dark—he didn’t know what practical obstacles they’d run into, like a giant fallen tree across the road at one point that they had to detour around. At least the stolen Hydra tanks were good at making a separate track. But now they’d managed to spot a few landmarks and were sure they were going the right way.

By unspoken consensus, Steve was loosely in charge, even though he obviously (to Bucky) had no idea what he was doing. He might be Captain America—somehow—but Bucky could tell he had no actual command training. And he was _Steve._ He’d never exactly had people lining up to listen to him, to follow him. Not until now.

Fortunately, a few other people had more or less organized the escaped prisoners toward the end of the battle. Steve and Bucky had worked their way around the smouldering remains of the factory—they’d ended up on the opposite side of the building from everyone else—just in time for the last mopping up. A ragged cheer went up at Steve’s appearance and the whole shebang was dropped in his lap. After all, he’d rescued them, he was Captain America, and it was a reasonable—though mistaken—assumption that he knew what he was doing. He’d managed to navigate that with a mix of grace, determination, and total bewilderment, although that last was probably only noticeable to Bucky.

Now they were trekking their way back to Allied territory. All they needed to do was keep moving, which meant the only real requirement for leadership was to be stubborn and inspiring. Steve, Bucky had always thought, had both those traits in spades. Other people were finally starting to notice it too.

When other people were looking, Steve was—well, _Bucky_ could tell he was uncertain, and he was polite and careful, like always, but there was a new firmness in how he spoke and acted. Bucky still saw Steve, but the other men saw Captain America, and Steve was—well. He was something different, now. He wasn’t just bigger Steve in a costume when they asked him for orders; there was something else shining through. They saw what they needed to see, and Steve had never liked to lie or to let people down—he would _become_ what they saw, just because they needed it, come hell or high water.

Of course he would.

But when no one else was looking, when he wasn’t helping with everything, when no one needed Captain America, he was just walking along with the rest of them, keeping an eye out for an ambush or rough terrain. And when he was just walking along with the rest of them, he looked . . . worn.

Bucky jostled his shoulder again. “Hey,” he repeated. “You alright?”

“Hm? Fine,” Steve said, glancing over at him (over and _down,_ that was . . . it would take some getting used to, was all). He pulled his hand out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He’d taken to poking at the broken radio in there when he was nervous. Bucky didn’t know why he hadn’t just dumped it. The thing had a bullet hole in it; it was far beyond repair.

“Just thinking.”

“We’re gonna get back just fine,” Bucky said. “Should only be another day, day and a half at the outside, right? And you said there wasn’t any other known activity around here.”

“Yeah, I’m not worried about that.” Steve’s smile was fleeting and troubled. “It’s more what happens when we get back.”

"When we get back?" Bucky raised his eyebrows. "When you get too many medals to know what to do with, you mean?"

"Hah." Steve rolled his eyes. "I went against orders to go after you. I told you that. I'm not even technically in the Army, quite—well, I don't know, maybe I still am—but—"

"Steve," Bucky said seriously. "Let me tell you something. Whatever you are right now, whatever you were supposed to do, you're gonna _be_ in the Army when we get back. They aren't going to let you go. _That's_ not gonna be a problem."

Steve didn't look convinced. "It's not important," he said after a minute. "I mean, I honestly have no idea what will happen, but I hope—  But that's not the point. Whatever they do to me, that's fine. The point is that I got you out. Got _everyone_ out. You . . . ." He shook his head and gave Bucky a real smile this time. “Yeah. You. So never mind me. What about you?"

They'd been over this. "I'm fine, Steve."

"Are you—"

"I'm alive." Bucky took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm alive, you're here, everyone got out. I'm walking. That's a helluva lot better than I expected."

"I heard you this morning," Steve said hesitantly. Bucky had taken a catnap sitting against a tree back at Azzano while they were rigging up a way to carry the wounded in the tanks. He hadn’t meant to, and it hadn’t been pleasant.

"I'm not the only one with nightmares." Bucky shrugged, firmly ignoring the shudder that tried to crawl up his spine. "It'll pass. I'm alive."

Steve gave him a searching look. He'd been more restrained than Bucky had expected. He hadn't actually asked what the frog-faced scientist had done to him, or why he'd ended up as a science experiment instead of in the cages with everyone else. He was pretty sure Steve was waiting for a chance to discuss it in relative privacy. That kind of patience was impressive coming from Steve. It was a relief, too, because it meant _Bucky_ didn’t have to worry about making sure they weren’t overheard. He didn’t mind letting Steve take care of that for him. Not that there was anything anyone _shouldn’t_ overhear, just—there were things Bucky would really rather nobody knew.

Except Steve.

But Steve hadn’t asked outright yet, and probably wouldn’t until they were alone, and that was good because, while Bucky didn’t mind him knowing, Bucky . . . wasn't sure how to say it. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened himself. He was pretty sure he'd imagined a lot of what had gone on in that room. Then Schmidt had pulled his goddamn face off, and he was suddenly a lot less sure. How did you say something like that?

 _I think I'm losing my mind, Steve_ , he thought. _Unless I'm not going crazy, and it's just the world that’s going nuts, and that might actually be more likely, because you're here, and I'm not dead, and you're about three times the size you were when I left you. And that's completely crazy, but that, you and me, that’s the only thing I_ **_am_ ** _sure is real. So yeah, pal, I'm fine, unless I'm not._ Besides, there was the fact that he _was_ alive and walking and, even though everything hurt more than he wanted to think about, and light seemed too bright so he felt like he was hungover all the time, and noises seemed louder too, and every smell felt like it was crawling up his nose and inside his head—even though there was all of that— _he was alive and walking and mostly fine,_ and if half of what he remembered was happening, he ought to be dead. Or maybe alive, but minced, mangled, torn up in his body or head or both. Not—not walking around and talking and able to tease his friend.

How did you bring up something like that?

So he pushed Steve back instead. "If it's not a big deal whether you get in trouble with the brass when we get back, what’s eating you?"

“Nothing,” Steve insisted, but his hand went to the pocket where he kept the broken radio.

“You afraid they’ll have given us all up for dead and moved the camp?” Bucky asked.

“Huh?”

“When you didn’t check in.” Bucky nodded at the pocket. “You keep fiddling with that radio. You know at this point keeping quiet is actually safer, right? Nothing to intercept.”

“That’s not it.”

“What, then?”

Steve sighed, and, interestingly, went a little pink. "It's, uh, more about the . . . person who gave me the radio. And not about getting it shot, either, just—something that happened before I left. It's fine."

Bucky frowned at him, because he knew that voice, knew that shrug and the hitch in Steve's shoulders as he said "it's fine." That was the way he always looked when he was, well, hurt—not physically hurt, he’d always try to tough that out, but when he was rejected and aching and trying to cover it, or, worse, to pretend it didn't matter when it really did. Bucky had heard that voice and seen that shrug at the end of too many bad dates. It always hurt him to see Steve like that. Every time, he felt the sting along with Steve or was indignant for him, sometimes both. How thick did a girl have to be to not see how great Steve was? Sure, he wasn't exactly tall and dashing, and maybe not charming, but he had _substance._ He was interesting, kind, clever, funny. If you got him talking about something he cared about, he'd light up all over. He was a great guy. Bucky wasn't best friends with just anyone. So why didn't everyone else see that?

Now he felt the same baffled annoyance creeping over him. Somehow, in some way, someone Steve wanted to impress, to approve of him, had told him he wasn’t good enough. Steve didn't want approval from many people, so this meant it must be someone really damn important, and Bucky was consequently really damn annoyed.

And, right now, concerned.

But concerned didn’t work well on Steve, so all he said was "You're a shit liar.”

Steve rolled his eyes at him. "I said it's fine."

"Yeah, you keep saying that. Doesn't make it less of a lie."

Steve grumbled something under his breath and kept walking in silence.

It was almost half an hour later when he said, "It's stupid, okay?"

"What is?" Bucky asked, startled out of his exhausted daze.

"The thing I'm upset about. I don’t want to lie to you. It’s just that it's not important compared to getting everyone back safely and it's not anything at all compared to what happened to you, so—just don't worry about it."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about anything you don't think is important?"

Steve went pink again.

"Come on, Steve. I know it's something where you feel like you let somebody down—you never act like this unless—"

"No," Steve said, pinker still. "It's not that. I don't think I let anyone down. Maybe myself, for thinking—for being stupid. Getting my hopes up."

"Hopes up? For what? Geez, did you think they could make you even more—?" Bucky flapped a hand at Steve, at the bulk of him.

"No," Steve said, "nothing like that. But—thinking maybe Agent Carter—for a second, I thought she . . . ." he cut himself off and glared at Bucky.

 _Oh._ This was _Carter._ He remembered Steve talking about her as they staggered around the flaming remains of the factory, part of his long explanation of what “I joined the Army” meant. Steve had been trying to distract Bucky and keep him awake. Bucky had been pretty foggy for a while, but he knew Steve and he knew that tone of voice. Bucky wasn't sure what his face did when he remembered that, but it was apparently too knowing, because Steve’s muttered "shut up” was just a little too sharp.

"I didn't say anything," Bucky said. "But, look, Steve—anyone who . . . ." He trailed off.

Steve was nothing if not genuine. It was one of the traits he valued most in other people, too. So this wasn’t like bad dates before, where Bucky had been able to shake Steve out of a funk by pointing out that anyone who didn’t like him because he was short and skinny was probably too shallow to be worth Steve’s time anyway. (Steve would never have put it like that himself, but Bucky did, and Steve could argue in the girl’s defense, and then somehow everything seemed to pass over.) Bucky had no idea what had happened on _that_ front when Steve went from a scrawny angry punk to Captain America, but he guessed he would have gotten a lot more attention from, well, _everyone_ in the time between the . . . experiment . . . and his arrival out of nowhere in the factory. Steve said it had been months, and Bucky figured that by now Steve would be just as sick of people being interested in him _for_ the packaging as he’d been of people being automatically _dis_ interested because of it.

No one had shot Steve down for being a mouthy short skinny guy this time. Whatever this was, it was personal. This Carter lady had put Steve off because of _Steve._

(Which was a stupid thing to do, because Steve was great.)

So she had to be someone Steve genuinely liked and respected, which meant she deserved it. And she had somehow told him he—he, himself, his Steve-ness—wasn’t good enough.

"It's not like that," Steve said over Bucky's thoughts. "It wasn't—there isn’t anything—there _couldn’t_ be, even if . . .  and there’s not.” At Bucky’s raised eyebrows, he went on, “She's the SSR’s liaison with the Army, the one I was talking about. The one who I think put a word in Phillips' ear about choosing me. The one who told me I should go after you, and helped me do it, and"—he shrugged helplessly—"put her career on the line doing that. Her idea. I didn’t ask.” He looked somewhere between bashful and starstruck.

“Doesn’t sound like she doesn’t like you,” Bucky said.

Steve sighed. “No, but— Not like _that._ There's nothing there, and there shouldn't be. It’s against regulations, and even if it wasn’t, her life’s hard enough without people assuming— I mean, the shit they were giving her anyway...." He trailed off. "First time I saw her, she knocked a guy down with one punch for making fun of her," he added wistfully.

Yeah. He had it bad.

"So you fell for someone who picks fights like breathing, same as you,” Bucky said, fighting a grin. “Knew it’d happen someday.”

Steve huffed, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“So there _would_ be something there, but you can't say anything about it because it's against regulations, and the mess that’d make if you did anyway would be worse for her. And you keep messing with that radio because you wanted to let her know you’re OK. That it?"

Steve barely glanced at him before looking away. "Not quite."

Bucky waited, but Steve didn’t say anything else. “Where am I wrong, then?”

“I fell for _her,”_ Steve said quietly, clear and pained. “She doesn’t feel like that about _me.”_

Bucky blinked. “Steve. She helped you go AWOL. Anyone who believes in you like that—  I mean, you don’t want to say anything about it. Maybe she doesn’t want to either. It’s a tricky situation for both of you.” Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky talked over him. “Think about it before you go beating yourself up, alright? You’ve gotta remember, I’ve seen you all dreamy before—”

“Hey!”

“—over girls who wouldn’t even look at you. C’mon, you know it’s true. And you never looked like this about it.” He hadn’t. He’d get all lit up when he was talking about the girl, sure, like he did about this one, or all soft and dreamy-eyed sometimes. When it didn’t work out, he’d be quiet and wistful for a few weeks, and then back to normal. But there’d never been this _pain_ behind it.

Steve didn’t look at him. “Yeah, well. This is different.”

“That’s what I—”

“This time I thought I had a chance.” It came out quiet and soft and a little bitter, the kind of bitter that was directed against himself rather than anyone else.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He took a minute to let the white-hot surge of emotion pass. It took him by surprise. Steve blaming himself for getting his hopes up was nothing new; Steve was always stupid like that. No, what had Bucky breathless was that implicit confession: Steve hadn’t ever thought he _had_ a chance, before. 

“You’re that sure you don’t?” he asked, when he could keep his voice neutral.

“Yeah.” Steve swallowed. “S’what I was trying to say. She’s got someone—pilot who flew us in. Civilian. No regulations against that. Less chance of anyone noticing, too.”

“Oh,” was all Bucky could find to say, because _that?_ That made sense. “Shit.”

“It’s Stark, actually,” Steve went on, matter-of-fact, like he might as well lay everything out so Bucky didn’t keep trying to guess and accidentally keep pouring salt on the wounds. “The inventor you read all those articles about, who did the Expo. Helped with, uh, this”—he gestured at his own impossibly broad chest—”and is working with the SSR on the war effort. Has his own plane and flies it. Was willing to help me out. But they talked about flying off to God-knows-where afterwards for—for a romantic evening.”

Oh hell.

"She definitely thinks I'm up to it," Steve said, gesturing at everything around them, "or she wouldn't have recommended me in the first place and she wouldn't have helped me borrow a plane to come rescue you. So, yeah, she believes in me. Likes me, too, I think. And that’ll have to be enough.” He said it firmly, with a little jerk of his chin, settling those massive shoulders. Bucky knew that gesture, even on this new body, had seen it all his life: Steve had decided he was going to be fine.

Oh fuck.

~~~

They stopped when it got too dark to keep going. It was weird, out here in the middle of nowhere—the sky was bright, stars and a crescent moon shining down uncomfortably clearly, but the ground was dark, shadows on shadows making the terrain difficult to read and turning every waving branch into a Hydra scout.

They were all a little twitchy.

Steve handled the logistics of setting up camp better than Bucky would have expected, given he clearly had no idea of how things were supposed to work. People just came to him with ideas or suggestions; he’d listen seriously; and then they’d get to work. Bucky gave him some advice a time or three, but overall, Steve was doing a fantastic impression of a not-completely-terrible officer. Not bad for a runaway movie star.

After Foster’s little chat with Steve,  word had made its way around fairly quickly, but even _if_ most of the men knew that Steve wasn’t really a captain and wasn’t even supposed to be here, they were treating him just the same. That filled Bucky with a vague sense of vicarious pride.

So he was more than a little startled when, once everyone was settled down, food had been scrounged, the wounded were tended to a little bit more thoroughly, and a _very_ vigilant watch set up, Steve grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from the center of camp. He shouldn’t have been. He’d known that this was coming. He just hadn’t necessarily expected it this soon.

They settled down near the edge of the camp. Steve found himself a seat on a large, flatish rock, while Bucky leaned against a tree. It was a good place. Steve would notice if anyone was looking for him, but no one was going to run across them accidentally.

The silence stretched out.

“What do you want, Steve?” Bucky asked finally. It came out harsher than he meant it to.

“I want to know what happened,” Steve said, voice low and earnest. “I know you keep saying you’re fine, but—Bucky, I know it’s a miracle you’re on your feet and all, but you’re not fine. I keep thinking . . . .” He shuddered. “I saw what was in that room. I got a really good memory now. I keep thinking about what I saw and I just . . . imagine . . . .”

“Yeah, well, if you can imagine it they probably did it,” Bucky said, blunt. If he didn’t say it, Steve would just keep poking around it, sniffing and nosing and worrying at it like a dog with a bone, and there wasn’t enough of Bucky left to be gnawed at. Better to get it out quickly.

Steve’s expression of shock quickly gave way to one of heartbroken rage, then confusion. “But then . . . .”

“Told you,” Bucky said. He hoped his crossed arms would hide the way his hands were shaking, the way his whole body was starting to shake. “I’m alive. I’m walking around. I didn’t expect that.”

“I thought you didn’t remember much of what they did,” Steve said, frowning.

“I thought I was making it up,” Bucky said. “I thought I was imagining things—seeing things, hearing things. Could hear my teeth squeak, feel my skin growing back. Felt like everything was on fire, but on the inside, and then like I could hear noises like dogs do, a dog whistle, but it was everywhere and I _felt_ it, somehow.” He untucked one hand long enough to touch his chest. “And all of it, that little frog-faced guy taking notes. Not touching me. H-he didn’t—he didn’t use the, the tools. Had other people do that. Bunch of different ones. But he’d tell them what to do and they’d—cut or burn or—there were needles— and I swear one time I heard their hearts beating. Weird shit like that. I thought it was made up. Some of it maybe was. But you showed up and you were real.” He forced himself to breathe. “And Schmidt’s . . . _face_ was real, and nothing I remember is any stranger than that.”

Steve’s face was drawn and miserable. “Bucky….”

“If you’re asking me what happened, I can tell you,” Bucky said, forcing the words out. “I can tell you what I remember, anyway, whatever fucking good that does. You wanna know what they were _doing_ to me, I got no goddamn idea. And the shit I think I remember doesn’t line up with any of the evidence”—he shifted, pushing his right leg further back against the tree, feeling cold and pressure and rough bark through the cloth against his skin, all fine and working where he remembered flayed skin, bare muscle, pinpricks of fire— “so where does that leave us?”

Steve didn’t answer. The distant light from several fires danced over his strange new-old face, making shadows where there never were shadows before.

“Where does that leave us, huh?” Bucky repeated, because he wasn’t going to spell this one out for him.

“You’re—you’re not crazy,” Steve said quietly. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I’m not convinced that’s better, pal,” Bucky said. He hunched his shoulders, pulling his arms closer against his chest. It was cold.

“Then you do have an idea,” Steve said. “About what they might have been doing to you, I mean.”

He was being so _careful_ about it. Didn’t he realize that made it worse? That if he didn’t come right out and say it, Bucky would have to? Hadn’t he been through enough?

“Idea, maybe. But I don’t know,” Bucky said, every word pushed out deliberately. It was both a pain and a relief, unburdening but agonizing, like when he was eight and tripped on a broken bottle and had to pull the shards of glass out of his leg. “I don’t know what this—maybe they wanted to test out a new way of driving prisoners crazy. Maybe they didn’t do half of what I remember and I’m just making it all up. I don’t know, I don’t _know—”_

“Hey.” Steve was standing now, impossibly large, one hand outstretched and nearly touching him. “It’s me. You don’t have to know. This isn’t a _debriefing,_ I just—you’re my best friend. I care about what happened to you. What happened to _you,_ got it? Not what they’re planning, not what they did to their—what happened in that room—just what you remember. I want to know if you’re okay.”

“Well, I think you got your answer,” Bucky choked out. Steve’s hand did settle on his arm then, just below his shoulder, and he squeezed gently. Bucky shuddered, the warmth and pressure grounding him. “Got to do better than that tomorrow, though,” Bucky added, letting his head fall back against the tree trunk with a dull _thunk._ He kept his chin tucked as much as he could, but the movement forced his chest to open just a little bit.

“Better?” Steve asked.

“Real debriefing. I’ll have to tell ‘em everything,” Bucky said, staring up into the tree. “Can’t dodge around like with you. I’ll have to—have to say what happened, with the table and the straps and the—”

And suddenly he wasn’t leaning on the tree anymore, and his arms weren’t wrapped around himself, and his shoulders weren’t up around his ears. Steve had somehow _picked him up,_ squirming those huge arms under his like he was still tiny and wiry, and enveloped him in a hug.

“Mmph,” Bucky said to Steve’s shoulder. Steve didn’t loosen his hold, and Bucky didn’t really mind. It was stupid, but knowing Steve was there—gigantic, but his old impetuous self—made something that had been tense and straining at high alert somewhere in his spine relax. Something on guard stood down.

Besides, Steve was _warm._

It took him a few moments to realize that Steve was talking. “—so sorry, I should’ve been faster, I should’ve—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Rogers,” Bucky said, lifting his face so he could talk directly into Steve’s ear. “None of this is your fault. You got me _out."_

“You shouldn’t have _been_ there,” Steve ground out. “I should’ve been here with you, not going all over the country and living in hotels and making movies. I should’ve been doing something _useful._ They should’ve let me.”

“Well, the second you got within a hundred miles of a fight, you jumped into it. I think they’re gonna let you be useful now.”

Steve sighed and let go, stepping back. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. “But you can’t— I mean, even if they’d sent you overseas right away, you couldn’t have stopped this. What if they’d sent you to the Eastern front, huh? Or the Pacific? You can’t be everywhere. I’m just glad you got here when you did.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He didn’t sound happy about it.

“We ought to head back,” Bucky said, because he didn’t have the energy for this kind of argument. “And I have to think. Got to figure out what to tell the brass when we get back. So do you, _Captain.”_ He tried on a smirk. It didn’t feel convincing, but Steve laughed anyway.

“Not much to tell. Deliberately defied orders, came back successful. —Thank you,” he added, more seriously. “For telling me, I mean. Whatever else you tell them.”

Bucky looked up at him sharply. “If—”

“If they ask me, I’ll say I don’t know what they were trying to do. That’s the truth. Anything else is just guessing.” His gaze was a little too knowing, held just a little of the wide-eyed fear Bucky was trying so hard to hide. Gratitude hit Bucky like a physical thing, a warm, desperate relief, and he let out a long breath.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

~~~~

They marched back into camp in the early afternoon, a raggedy troop of exhausted but triumphant men, Steve leading them. Their approach had clearly been noticed—there were cries of shock and jubilation as they emerged from the woods, and a crowd quickly gathered as they approached the gate, which was quickly raised to let them in. Steve thought he’d gotten used to being stared at on the USO circuit, but the pressure of eyes on him, incredulous or calculating or awed, meant something different now. He was nervous, sure, but not embarrassed. He was doing something _real_ this time, something useful. The four hundred men walking behind him were a testament to that.

Still, he was glad for Bucky’s presence, silent and steadfast, at his side.

Bucky fell back to walk half a pace behind him as they walked into the camp. Steve could have laughed at the strangeness of it; all their lives, Bucky had taken point in situations like this, had done the talking, the explaining. It was hard to see that charming boy in him now. He swore he’d gotten a decent amount of sleep after their talk, but he was grim and hollow-eyed. Steve glanced at him and jostled his elbow; the cheers going up on either side were for his safe return, after all, his and the rest of them. Bucky nodded at Steve in acknowledgement, but didn’t smile.

He took a step back as they came to a halt, taking up position just behind Steve. _Go ahead. I’m with you._ They’d done this all their lives; that presence, that half-step back, was achingly familiar even from this changed and haunted man. The last of Steve’s nerves fell away. He had done right and would do it again.

Colonel Phillips appeared from the crowd, shoving his way to the front to glare at Steve. Agent Carter was right behind him, and he couldn’t help stealing a glance at her. He could swear he caught a glimpse of relief and joy, even a grin, before she schooled her face into blandness.

First things first. “Some of these men need medical attention,” he told Phillips. The man just stared at him, incredulous. “I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action,” Steve added.

He was almost sure Phillips couldn’t hear Bucky snort behind him. Almost.

Phillips’ face went through a remarkable range of expressions for a man trying to remain expressionless. Steve was familiar with that particular response. He’d gotten it from a lot of people, from teachers to Bucky’s mother to, on occasion, priests. He waited.

“That won’t be necessary,” Phillips said finally, sounding more exasperated than anything else, as his expression settled on something Steve would almost call a smile. Steve could practically hear Bucky: _told you so._

Phillips turned and shouldered off into the crowd, presumably to begin organizing everyone, pausing only to mutter something to Agent Carter. When he moved on, she stepped forward, quite close to Steve. She was as beautiful as ever, and she was the only person who didn’t seem surprised to see him—relieved, yes, but not astonished. Her gaze flicked up and down, assessing him, expectant.

“You’re late,” she said briskly.

This, at least, he had a response to. Steve rummaged in his pocket and showed her the damaged transmitter. “Couldn’t call my ride.”

She looked down for a second, trying to hide a smile, he thought. When she looked up, it was with an intensity that surprised him. Some strong emotion seemed to buoy her up; her shoulders settled and she radiated confidence and pride. Steve smiled; he couldn’t help it. Even knowing better, his heart turned toward her like a flower toward the sun.

Bucky’s voice shook him out of the moment, saving him from saying something disastrous. “Hey!” he was yelling. “Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

Steve cast a quick look over at his best friend as a cheer went up, half in surprise and half in thanks. Bucky nodded at him again: _don’t worry about it._ And maybe also, as the cheer spread through the men he’d rescued and the rest of the camp joined in: _See? You’ve earned it._

~~

It was nearly sunset before Steve got a moment to himself. There was a whirlwind of meetings, answering questions for everyone from Phillips (“Yes, it was a very stupid plan, sir. Yes, I _did_ do that very stupid thing, sir. I don’t know, it seems to have worked, sir”) to a very intent duo from the SSR’s intelligence-gathering team (“It was definitely Schmidt—and there’s something you should know about his face”) to Howard Stark (“I don’t know how far I jumped; everything was exploding”). Phillips had been by far the most interesting. Watching him decide whether to be angry, relieved, or enthusiastic, Steve realized that Bucky was right. He’d proven himself useful and the Army or the SSR would put him to work. But more than that, Steve was— _Captain America_ was— _valuable._ He might be able to name his own terms on this. He might be able to decide where he’d be most useful.

His head was spinning with possibilities already.

The intelligence briefings, on the other hand, were mostly a matter of him repeating what he’d done, where he’d been, and what Schmidt had said. He glossed over what had happened to Bucky, sticking to the facts he was absolutely sure of. He described the contents of the room, when asked, in as much detail as he could remember, but he didn’t mention how quickly Bucky had rallied, from being unable to stand to running across a narrow, shaky beam. The SSR agents had a name for the frog-faced scientist—Arnim Zola. Steve grimly committed it to memory.

Aside from that, the SSR agents were mostly interested in what Hydra was up to. They wanted to know the layout of the factory, and Steve told them as much as he had seen. The men he’d rescued would have more detailed information on parts of it, he was sure.

He felt a bit freer speculating on what they’d been manufacturing there, because he knew the others would be making the same guesses. He told them about the Hydra guns, the blue bursts of light that disintegrated their targets. “The others saw them in the field,” he said finally. “They’d be able to tell you a lot more than I can. All I know is our tanks stopped being able to shoot like that sometime yesterday” (they’d tried to dissolve a fallen tree blocking their path to no effect), “so the charges don’t last that long. I’m not sure if the guns all still work. Most of them were this morning, but not all of them, and I don’t know about now.” The agents were predictably disappointed that they couldn’t immediately equip the Allies with ray guns, but Steve thought it was good that Hydra’s arsenal had limitations. He handed over the power pack he’d stolen from the factory; one of Stark’s assistants appeared in the tent as though by magic to claim custody of it.

The meeting with Stark himself wasn’t very long, and wasn’t officially a meeting; Steve was pretty sure the inventor had been on his way to something else, then seen him and yanked him aside for a hurried conversation. He didn’t bother asking Steve anything about the Hydra weapons, which Steve appreciated; between the debriefing notes he doubtlessly already had and his own experiments, it wasn’t worth their time. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, an unreadable expression on his face, and then, “okay, tell me _exactly_ what you did.” He scribbled down notes as Steve explained how he’d snuck and fought his way in and out of the fortress. “Design ideas,” he’d said when Steve asked. “You need something better than a _costume_ next time.”

So. Stark took it for granted there would be a next time. That was almost more encouraging than Phillips’ eager “you remember a _map?”_ Stark waved off Steve’s hesitant thanks for delivering him into enemy territory. “Anything for you, Cap—and Agent Carter.”

Remembering that now, sitting at a temporarily-empty table, Steve closed his eyes and sighed. It had been intoxicating, this morning, having all of Carter’s attention on him. She’d radiated triumph and pride, and if he hadn’t known better, he could have sworn that some of it was _for him,_ not just _on his behalf._ But it wasn’t, and he knew that. It was fine. Bucky had started up that cheer and stopped him from grinning like an idiot or embarrassing himself some other way.

He hadn’t seen Bucky in hours now. He’d been pulled off for a debriefing and medical examination, probably in that order, even though it shouldn’t be. The look on his face had been as grim as Steve had ever seen it. And yet he’d pulled Steve out of his head about Peggy, and made Phillips see what he had on his hands, by cheering for him.

Bucky had his back. He always had. Bucky had believed in him all along; Bucky and Steve’s mother. Then Erskine—and Peggy. Not a large group. He’d lost two of them. Steve was suddenly, dizzyingly grateful, a relief that was more fear than joy, that it was only two. Thank God. If he’d lost Bucky—if he’d been too late . . . .  

 _No._ He couldn’t think about that, couldn’t even imagine. Everything else was small in the face of that. It was like he’d tried to tell Bucky the day before—he couldn’t feel that bad about Peggy and Howard when there were more important things happening. He didn’t have a chance with her; so what? It was a small sadness, a speck of disappointment against the miracle that was Bucky, right there, against all odds, alive. He hadn’t lost him. And he hadn’t lost _her_ —he had her confidence, her trust, her co-conspirator’s grin as she gestured toward Stark’s plane. He had her respect. He would take whatever friendship and support she was willing to give him, because he wasn’t stupid. His heartache could take care of itself. There had been nothing there to lose, after all, and what he’d gained was a treasure itself. The might-have-been ached, sure, but missing out on a shot at romance wasn’t the same as _losing_ someone.

He’d almost lost Bucky.

He _had_ Peggy—just not like that. That didn’t make it matter less. He had Bucky, still, thank God. That didn’t make Bucky matter more than he had before, either. It couldn’t; he’d always been that important. But . . . . He drummed his fingers against his knee. It was different, now. Bucky was hurting, and that made Steve’s heart ache as much as Peggy and Stark did. He wasn’t the only one who had changed. He and Bucky were both different, but they needed each other more now than ever. _Guess it’s my turn to hold you together for a while, pal._

He wondered what Bucky had said in his debriefing. What he’d told the doctors. What they thought about it.

Voices around him grew louder as a group of people approached. Steve stood up. Last intelligence briefing of the day, or so he’d been told.

He hoped, wherever Bucky was right now, he was doing alright.

~~~

Bucky was still in the medical tent when Steve found him. He sat on a chair, elbows braced on his knees, resting his forehead against his steepled fingers. He was not sitting with his head in his hands, staring at the ground. He _wasn’t._

Maybe he had been until he heard Steve coming, but that wasn’t anybody else’s business.

Steve had clearly been looking for him, but once he stepped into the tent, it was clear that it would take a while. Everyone wanted to talk to him or stare at him, soldiers and nurses and doctors alike, and he was too polite to shrug them off. He shook a few hands and smiled and looked uncomfortable, which gave Bucky the time to try to pull himself together. He hadn’t really understood that expression before; even at his most distracted, his most terrified, he’d never been in pieces. But that wasn’t what it meant. It wasn’t about pulling together fragments; it was more like gathering up folds of cloth, wadding up something stretched thin, trying to give it more substance.

A pretty blonde nurse was smiling at Steve, reaching out to touch his arm lightly, flirtatious. The look of paralyzed confusion on Steve’s face would have had Bucky doubled over with laughter once upon a time. Now he just felt his mouth twitch into a smile. But that, the flicker of amusement, gave him a little more fabric to work with.

He could almost remember how to act like himself when Steve politely evaded the last doctor and walked up to him.

“So,” Bucky said, looking up at him. “Not court-martialed.”

“Alright, you told me so.”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come find you earlier, it’s been—”

“You wouldn’t have found me. Don’t think you’re so special, Rogers. They’ve been asking me things all day too.”

“Like what?”

Steve was not as subtle as he thought he was. Bucky knew what he meant, and he wasn’t going to discuss it _here._ And—maybe not anywhere, not for another couple of hours. He wasn’t ready to do it again.

He shrugged. “How we got captured, what the factory was like, whether we overheard anything about what this Hydra group is up to. Which we might have, not that it’ll do any good, since none of us speak German.” He paused, shook his head. “Well, maybe. Some of us. Jones, Mayer, couple others. But I couldn’t help them with that, so they asked me about the rest of it and then passed me along to the doctors. They were busy and I was in one piece, so they told me to wait and get some sleep if I could.” He grimaced.

“Could you?”

“Some.”

Steve was looking at him with too much concern. Bucky could read that expression: _how much of “the rest of it” did they ask about? What did you tell them? What did they say?_ He ignored it.

“I got a few hours, I think, before they got around to checking me over.”

Steve didn’t ask. Of course Steve didn’t ask. Steve was not-asking so loud somebody else was going to notice.

“They told me I should get more sleep,” Bucky concluded. “I’ll give you the details in a bit, but basically, nothing rest and time won’t fix. Quit worrying.”

Something complicated flitted across Steve’s face. “Sure,” he said finally. “You hungry?”

~~~

Bucky looked hollow and raw, but his appetite was fine. All the rescued men were tired and hungry, Steve knew. Bucky was no exception. The fact that he was eating as much or more than Steve wasn’t unusual either, except that the last time they’d shared a meal, Steve had been maybe two-thirds Bucky’s size, and now he was bigger than him.

Of course, Bucky had marched the same 30 miles—more like 40, given the rough terrain—that Steve had in the last two days, and he’d been starved and tortured before that. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything that Bucky was still so sharp on so little sleep, either. It wasn’t surprising he found it hard to let his guard down.

It didn’t mean nothing, either.

Steve looked around as they left the mess tent. The sun had set long enough ago that the sky was almost dark, the last rays shooting up to illuminate a few patches of cloud. All around them was thick, purple dusk, pierced by the orange glow of lamps and firelight. He walked purposefully along just outside the well-lit central path through the camp, and Bucky followed.

“They really said you’re alright?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Buck . . . .”

“Exhaustion,” he said. He was walking on Steve’s good side—what had been his good side—and talking very quietly. Steve was willing to bet that even before the serum, no one else would have been able to hear him. “Couple cracked ribs, maybe. Bruises. Cuts healing up already. Same for a few burns. No worse than most of the other guys.”

Steve swallowed. _Did they know it_ should _be?_ he wanted to ask, but the answer was obvious. Bucky wouldn’t be left to sitting around, mostly ignored, if the doctors knew what had happened to him. The question was whether the SSR did. And . . . whether Bucky wanted them to.

Bucky was looking at him sidelong, like he wanted to say something else, or knew that Steve did. But his eyes flicked away to one of Phillips’ aides hurrying past them in the opposite direction, deep in conversation with (Steve thought) one of Stark’s assistants, and then to the nurse crossing between the rows of tents. It was almost full dark now, but there was no privacy, no quiet.

Steve looked around. Soldiers and the occasional nurse bustled by, but it was hard for anyone besides him to make out much detail—or so he assumed, because the people walking by had to get within a few feet of him to before they did a double-take. They’d been doing it all day, probably because he was still wearing the ridiculous Captain America costume. He hadn’t exactly had time to change.

Bucky didn’t seem surprised when Steve led him, not back toward Medical, but toward the perimeter of the site. “Not sure this is where I’m supposed to be,” was all he said, voice low, as they neatly sidestepped a pair of nurses.

“You’re with Captain America,” Steve said, just as quiet. Maybe the costume was good for something after all. “No one’s going to stop you.”

Bucky sideyed him. “Don’t push it, Rogers.”

Steve flashed him a wry grin. “Me?”

The field where they were camped bordered on forest, the same forest they’d walked out of earlier. Steve slipped into it now with a tug at Bucky’s sleeve, and Bucky followed him, shaking his head. Steve didn’t see the big deal. They needed a place to talk, and they’d never get that in an Army camp. It was just like last night.

There were sentries here, of course, but they were on the lookout for people coming towards the campsite, not people leaving. Besides, Steve knew where they’d be; he’d overheard Phillips mention it. His new and improved hearing was a handy thing.

Steve and Bucky walked a short distance into the woods and came to a halt in a small clearing.

There was a pause while he and Bucky stared at each other. The sky was clear again, and like the night before, there was a sliver of painfully bright moon blazing overhead. Even to Steve, the clearing was a tangle of shadows. They hid the raggedness of Bucky’s uniform and deepened the bruises on his face.

“I said I didn’t remember all of what happened,” Bucky said abruptly. “That’s true. I think.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to—  Some of what I remember is stuff they want to know. Hell, they need to know. The rest of it . . . if I sound crazy in part of it, I don’t know if anyone will listen to the rest. So I just—I said I’m not sure what happened. And I’m not.” He didn’t look grim anymore, just tired, and there was a thin skin of stubbornness over something else.

“I’m not either,” Steve said, because Bucky seemed to be waiting for something. “I told you. I didn’t make any guesses in my report. That’s not my call to make.”

Bucky closed his eyes and swallowed. Steve wasn’t sure, but he thought the expression on his face was relief.

“They know I was . . . They know I was the only one Zola took who made it. But. I was the only one there when you showed up. The doctors think he hadn’t really gotten started on me yet.” He licked his lips, and his voice dropped further. “I didn’t tell them I remember different.”

Steve shuddered. “Bucky—”

“I don’t wanna be in someone else’s lab,” Bucky said in a rush. “I don’t care if it’s our side, I don’t— And I’m not sure, I don’t know, I can’t _tell_ if what I remember is real or— And they need to know the part I’m sure of. I saw more of the factory, more of that lab, than anyone else who got out of there. I can’t have them throw that out because I might be crazy.”

“I’m not arguing,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky looked at him. “No,” he said. His laugh had something desperate behind it. “That’s a first.”

“We don’t know what Zola did to you,” Steve said. “And you’re—the doctors say you’re not hurt that bad. So. No point in borrowing trouble over something we’re not sure of.”

“What if we’re right?” Bucky asked, his voice smaller than Steve had heard it in years. “What if we’re right and it’s, you know— _wrong?"_

Wrong? Steve blinked. Bucky’s hands were jammed into his pockets. His eyes were wide and staring in the moonlight, his face pale. Even with his enhanced senses, Steve couldn’t make out more than an outline of his hunched shoulders, but he was willing to bet Bucky was shaking.

“What do you mean, wrong?” he asked, and Bucky’s eyes closed, his face crumpled briefly in pain.

“I mean,” he said, very steadily, “if we’re right and—you said Erskine was the only one who knew the right formula, that Schmidt had it wrong and that’s why—” He made a vague gesture that could mean everything from _batshit crazy_ to _pulling off his face._ “So what if we’re right, but—I mean, I don’t look like you,” he finished in a rush.

Steve bit back the automatic _of course you don’t, your own mother couldn’t tell when you had mud in your hair_ because this wasn’t the time. Besides, Bucky had a point. “I was starting from being a shrimp,” Steve pointed out. “You were always . . . .” He was momentarily glad for the darkness; Bucky couldn’t see his ears turn red. “You probably just didn’t have as far to go. If we’re right,” he added, because they might not be.

Bucky made a skeptical noise. Steve could see him comparing: Steve was taller than him now, shoulders broader, and, while Bucky was clearly pretty strong, even after pain and weariness and hunger had taken their toll, it was lean, wiry muscle. If the serum had one set effect, wouldn’t it have changed that too?

“Anyway, so what if we’re right but it only helped you heal?” he continued. “That’s not really _wrong._ Helped you survive, at least. Do you really want to be bigger than me again that bad?”

Bucky didn’t laugh. Instead, he made a wounded kind of noise, and when he spoke, he sounded a bare inch away from tears. Steve’s heart sped up. “Steve. Pal. Don’t be an idiot. I mean _wrong._ I mean what if we’re right, but I don’t end up like _you,_ I end up like—” A sharp gesture and then he turned away. He actually _turned away_ from Steve and stayed like that, hands in his pockets, elbows tucked in close to his body, hunched and miserable and _terrified._

For a moment, Steve couldn’t breathe.

“Bucky, no,” he said finally, reaching out. Bucky flinched violently when Steve’s hand brushed his shoulder and he jerked back, cursing himself. “No, come on, that isn’t—”

“How do you know, Steve?” Bucky asked. He still didn’t turn around. Steve was pretty sure he was crying. “How do you know what the fuck’s going to happen?”

“Erskine said—” Steve began.

“Yeah, the guy who made the shit _you_ got.”

“He said it about Schmidt too,” Steve said heatedly, “so hear me out.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve took that as permission and went on. “He said it, what was it, amplifies what’s already there. ‘Good becomes great, bad becomes worse,’ that’s how he put it. Schmidt was already crazy; he got crazier and more power-hungry. But that was there to begin with.” He very carefully put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder again, and when Bucky didn’t pull away this time, slid it down, in, between his shoulder blades. “You’re not bad, Buck. Never have been. Not crazy, either, except for being friends with this little asshole who picks fights he can’t win. At worst you’re stuck with that.”

“Already stuck with you,” Bucky said thickly. Then, carefully measured: “You’re sure?”

“As much as I can be,” Steve said honestly. “That’s all he said, and I don’t know if it’d apply to every, I don’t know, every _variant_ of the— But he seemed to think so, and I trusted him.”

Bucky drew a shuddery breath. “Fine. But if I start going—bad—you gotta stop me.”

Steve said nothing.

“Promise me.”

“You can’t ask me to—

“You want me to do it _myself_?”

“God, no—I—”

“Then promise.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“I sure hope not. But if it does—”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Steve croaked.

“It already _did.”_

It sat between them, heavy.

“If something happens, if you start—changing—I won’t let you do anything you wouldn’t normally,” Steve said, finally. “I’ll stop you however I have to. But I’m not going to—to kill you” (he said it in a rush) “unless there’s no other choice. If something else goes wrong, I’ll stop you, and we’ll figure out a way to fix it. Okay?”

“I don’t want to turn into something else,” Bucky said, very quietly. “I’ve already—I’m not the guy I was when I left, pal.” His voice shook. “I’m not sure if you know what’s normal for me anymore. Or maybe you ought to have put me down already.”

 _"No,"_ Steve said, stepping in closer and using his hand on Bucky’s back to turn him around, facing him. “You’re you. I _know_ you, Buck. You’re not—you’re different,” he said carefully, “sure, but you’re not _not you. "_

“You willing to bet your life on that?” Bucky asked would-be lightly.

Steve held his gaze as well as he could in the moonlight. “Yes.”

~

Bucky looked at Steve, tried to drink in his confidence, absorb what Steve was saying. He wanted so badly to believe it, but he didn’t trust want anymore. He looked up (up, again with the up) into Steve’s earnest face and tried to accept Steve’s faith in him. It was hard to do with half his mind twisted up in knots, panic, scrabbling incessantly and pointing out that he shouldn’t be able to _see_ Steve’s face, that it was too dark, that he had changed.

He had changed and Steve was staking his life that it wasn’t for the worse.

A sob tried to crawl out of his throat. He locked his jaw and forced it down.

Steve’s hand twitched against his back ever so slightly, and he leaned back into it instinctively, almost frantically, willing him not to pull away. It felt like the warmth and pressure was the only thing grounding him, the only reason he stayed settled in his skin. Steve, thank God, seemed to get the message and instead pulled him in for a hug. Bucky collapsed gratefully against him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it.

“You’re _you,_ Bucky,” Steve said back, arms tightening around him. “You won’t.”

 _Maybe I_ can’t, Bucky thought, head spinning. _Maybe, like this, you’re safe._ But he’d seen the fight, seen Schmidt. Steve wasn’t invulnerable, and if—

“Don’t let me,” he whispered. “Please.”

“It’s you,” Steve repeated. “I know you. And you know me, no matter what else—  That can’t change. It _can’t.”_

Bucky pressed his face into Steve’s massive shoulder. Steve. Still Steve. Always Steve. He might be right. Bucky’d known him right away, even drugged and half-dead and with Steve huge and strange. Even if he went crazy—crazi _er_ —he’d still know him.

“I’ve got you,” Steve was whispering, one hand rubbing circles aimlessly on his back. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. We’ll figure this out.”

 _We’ll figure this out._ That was a promise Bucky could believe, at least. They’d made it many times, over schoolwork, girls, illness, rent, and they’d always kept it. They’d survived so far. Whatever happened, he could work with it, and Steve could work with it, and together they’d figure it out.

“Okay,” he said finally, straightening up. He missed it when Steve’s arms slid away. “Let’s—let’s get back to camp.”

“Alright,” Steve said. He hesitated. “You mind if we take a walk first? If someone asks me the wrong thing right now, I . . . .” He shook his head.

Bucky got it. Steve wasn’t the only one who needed time to drag himself back to feeling normal. “Phillips gave you a hard time, huh?”

“Got a lecture about ‘risking governmental assets,’” Steve confirmed. He jerked his head, eyebrows raised (and Bucky very carefully didn’t think about why he could see that), and they headed out of the clearing, walking slowly beneath the trees. After a moment, Steve went on, warming to the distraction. “He’s glad that it worked, but he’s not happy I did it. He’s one of the people who didn’t want me chosen for Rebirth in the first place, and he wanted an army, not just me. I think he’ll come around, though. Said something about how, if I’m going to go off on long-shot missions, I ought to have proper intel and support, and the SSR has been making noises about putting together a team to directly combat Hydra . . . .”

They could move relatively easily and quietly in this part of the woods, as there wasn’t much scrub underfoot—just fallen leaves, most of them too decayed to rustle, and the occasional tree root. Bucky focused on that and let Steve’s words wash over him.

“. . . take command of it. Someone needs to stop them. Erskine would have wanted . . .”

He wanted to stay. He was going to stay and take on more dangerous missions. Of course he was—he was the golden boy now, and he’d use that to be useful in all the ways it had burned him that he couldn’t be before. He could hear Steve settling as he talked, laying out plans. Steve always felt better when he could do something.

“ . . . and I want a chance to talk with the men who took the lead back at Azzano . . .”

Bucky felt better when Steve was there.

“. . . a liaison with the task force. It can’t be Phillips—he has too much else on his plate. So—considering the whole thing’s classified—it ought to be Peggy—ah, Agent Carter, I mean, because she already knows.”

Bucky stirred himself out of his thoughts. “You’d be okay with that?”

“Fine,” Steve said. He sounded genuinely startled. “I’d—I’d love it, actually.” He seemed to realize how that sounded partway through. The blush showed in his voice.

“Wouldn’t it be hard on you to—”

“She’s amazing,” Steve said with completely unabashed sincerity. “I want to be around her as much as I can. And you pointed it out: she’s as crazy as I am. We could do so much.”

“You wouldn’t get in her way,” Bucky said slowly, “and she wouldn’t rein you in.”

“Yeah.”

He turned it over in his head. It made sense. But . . . . “You’ve gotta not make doe eyes at her, that’s all, “ he warned. “Or say anything stupid.”

“I can do that.” Steve sounded a little offended.

“Hmm.”

“I can!” He paused and put a hand on Bucky’s arm. “Listen, Bucky, this isn’t— It’s not just— Peggy is incredible, and she likes me. She liked me before. I think she’s part of the reason Phillips agreed on me for the project—Erskine chose me and I think she agreed . . . . My point is, she likes _me._ There’s . . . not a lot of people who do.”

The last words were heavy and quiet. Bucky hated it, because he couldn’t really argue: people ignored the artist, made fun of the mouthy little guy, gaped at Captain America. People were stupid. He forced himself to talk lightly. “And that’ll stop you from getting cartoon hearts in your eyes how?”

Steve brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes, even though it couldn’t possibly make much of a difference in the darkness. “I’m lucky she likes me. I’m not going to, to _waste_ that on what I want.”

He dropped his hand from Bucky’s arm and started walking again while Bucky was still trying to think of a response. Bucky hurried to catch up. When words still failed him, he bumped his shoulder against Steve’s.

“I . . . I’d rather just work with her than not ever see her again, you know? It’s more important than that. I mean, all of it is important, fighting Hydra is important, but that’s not what I— _She’s_ more important than whether or not I ever get to kiss her.” Bucky heard him swallow. “Even if I really want to.”

Bucky looked over at Steve. It wasn’t quite another clearing, but the trees were thinner here. There was enough light for him to see the set of Steve’s jaw and the way his eyebrows bunched together. Steve meant what he was saying, and somehow the pride and pain Bucky felt for him made his own pain and fear less, not worse.

“Hey,” he said. “You’ve got me, at least.”

Steve looked back over at him. In the moonlight, his teeth flashed in the ghost of a grin. “Can’t kiss you either, Buck.”

“Says who?”

They both stopped dead, Bucky as startled to hear the words coming out of his mouth as Steve looked to be. “Not sure where that came from,” he muttered after a second. “Sorry. Forget I said it.”

“Sure,” Steve said. He was still wide-eyed.

Bucky dragged his hands down his face. God, he _was_ losing it. “Been a long couple of . . . a long month, actually.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said.

“I just. What I _meant_ is that—after the debriefing and the exam and everything, they said—I’ve got the option to take a discharge. I could go home. But I don’t have to. I’ve got a clean bill of health.” He took a deep breath. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you put together to take on Hydra, I’ll stay if I can be part of it.”

Steve inhaled sharply. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Bucky said harshly. _"Zola_ knows what he did to me. I want answers, Steve. And I want to make sure they never do it to anyone again. Not what they did to me and not what— We have to stop them from making more of those guns. They wiped out half our forces in under a minute. If they hadn’t needed prisoners to work the factory, they wouldn’t have stopped there. _I_ gave the order to surrender, Steve. Because everyone who outranked me was _dead._ I’ve seen what they can do, and if I can help stop it, I’m going to. It’s not just for you.”

“Understood,” Steve said quietly.

“But it’s you, too. I told you—I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. If I have the choice, I’ll be around, and I can help stop you from acting like an idiot around Agent Carter, which is the point I was _trying_ to make.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed.

“Thank you,” Steve said after a moment.

“What are friends for?” Bucky scuffed his foot over the ground, layers of decaying leaves swept aside almost soundlessly. “Sorry, again,” he added. “About— _that._ I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t mean . . . .” He trailed off. “Fuck,” he said softly, staring into the darkness—a part of the darkness that did _not_ contain Steve—as something fell into place.

“Bucky?”

“I think I did mean it,” he whispered.

“What?”

Bucky turned back to face Steve. He was sure he’d spoken loud enough for him to hear, now, although Steve _before_ wouldn’t even know he’d said anything. His heart was going uncomfortably fast, and he was pretty sure it was nerves and not pain or exhaustion making him shake, but by now that was just an annoyance. He was tired of fear and uncertainty, tired of _worry,_ and this was Steve. “I meant it about kissing,” he repeated. “I think.”

“You . . . think?” As far as Bucky could tell, Steve wasn’t angry, just very, very confused. Bucky found out he wasn’t too tired to feel relief.

“I haven’t thought about it before,” Bucky said quickly. “Ever. With you or—” he shook his head. “So I’m not sure. I just . . . .” He licked his lips. “The last few days, the only times I feel settled in my skin, or like it’s not gonna peel off and something else is going to walk out, are when we’re talking or you’re touching me.”

Steve made a pained sound.

“You said Agent Carter actually likes you,” Bucky went on. “I know you better than _anyone,_ and I like you too. And if she’s with Stark already and you think you don’t . . . that you’re not worth it, or whatever you tell yourself—I mean.” He shrugged. “It could be worth a shot. If you’re interested.” He tried to meet Steve’s eyes. The darkness made it harder. “Right now, I don’t think I would mind. That’s all.”

Steve took a few steps closer. “Is this another way of . . . of trying to cheer me up?” he asked, incredulous, and _now_ he sounded offended. “You don’t have your date’s sister to push at me, so you do this?”

“I’m a much better catch than Mary Louise’s sister,” Bucky said reflexively. “And I admitted that was a mistake.”

Steve let out a huff of laughter. “Okay. So this isn’t you feeling sorry for me.”

“No,” Bucky said—why would he think that? Except of course he’d think that. “No, of course not. That’s just why you might want—if you did want— Look, I don’t even know what _I_ want. I just know I don’t feel like I’m falling apart with you around.” He spread his hands: _That’s all I’ve got._ “And cheering you up isn’t a bad thing, Steve,” he added, because he couldn’t help it.

Steve was close enough that Bucky could see the little furrow in his forehead as he frowned in thought. “So you’re asking—”

“I’m not asking,” Bucky said. “I wouldn’t ask. But I could use something to get me out of my head, and you’re the only thing that does right now. And you’re the one who said you needed a walk, so maybe you do too.” He crossed his arms. This was crazy. “It might help and it might not. I’d be willing to try if you are.”

“I want you to be alright,” Steve said. His earnestness helped Bucky breathe a little easier. “I want you to know you’re _you_ and that I trust you and— I’m just not sure I want . . . that.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, “neither am I. You deserve to have someone who knows you and likes you kiss you sometime, but that doesn’t mean I’m the right person to . . . .” He paused, suddenly thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways Steve could end up feeling even worse if Bucky decided partway through that he actually didn’t want to kiss his best friend. “You know what, this is a bad idea. Forget I said anything. I’m a little out of my head here, you know? Didn’t think it through. This was selfish and a bad idea and I don’t even know if it would—”

“No,” Steve said, putting a hand on Bucky’s arm again to stop him. And damn, but it made a difference, even that light touch. It grounded him: this was real, and Steve was here, and Steve trusted him. He almost whimpered when Steve pulled his hand away.

Steve had the look on his face that had made Bucky say the stupid thing in the first place. He looked like he did back home when he was sick and trying to make himself go to work anyway: tired and at the same time all tensed up like something hurt. “You’re right about Peggy,” he said, sad, and then, like he was mad at himself: “It’s enough. It’s more than enough. That doesn’t help right now. I— Yeah, what the hell. Let’s try this.”

“You sure?” Bucky asked. “I mean, I’m fine, don’t do it for me.”

“It’ll be strange,” Steve said, eyeing him. “I can’t promise I won’t hate it.”

Bucky sighed with relief. “Me too. We don’t have to.”

“This was your idea!”

“It was more a thought than an idea.” Bucky looked at him, tried to imagine actually kissing him. It wasn’t . . . . Steve’s hugs had filled him with relief and warmth. The idea of kissing him wasn’t like that, but it wasn’t bad, either.

“I didn’t mean I don’t want to,” Steve was saying. “I just mean strange. I’ve done lots of strange things recently, believe it or not. And if this isn’t about you doing something you to make me feel better when I don’t need—”

“Of course you don’t need it,” Bucky said. “I don’t need anything either. I’m fine. Got a doctor’s signature to prove it.” His voice had gone a little sharp. He forced himself to slow down. “It’s about what we want. And honestly, I’m not going to have a clue if I really want this unless we try. But . . . I want to try.”

“Me too,” Steve said.

There was silence.

“Just to see,” Steve added.

“We don’t have to do it again,” Bucky said.

“Unless we both want to.”

Bucky nodded. “It doesn’t have to— We can just see. And if either of us doesn’t like it, or it’s too weird, then—”

“Then that’s it. No harm done.”

“Right.”

“Nothing changes.”

“Nothing changes either way. It’s just another way to—to watch out for each other, help each other out.” He dredged up a smile over the nerves. “Like you said, huh? We’ll figure it out.”

“Right.”

There was a pause.

“...So are you gonna kiss me already, or—”

And Steve bent down and kissed him.

~~~

~~~

Bucky’s second impression—after the acute sense of strangeness of kissing another man—was that Steve was not good at this. It wasn’t a _mean_ thought, just an observation. He didn’t think he was capable of judging at the moment. He was just taking everything in, _everything ,_ the cool breeze rattling the remaining dry leaves overhead, the warmth of Steve against his front, Steve’s fingers even warmer at the base of his neck; clumsy awkward press of lips and teeth. It was all of a piece: not good, not bad, just strange. And Steve didn’t know the first thing about kissing.

….Still. He _still_ didn’t, after who knows what people had tried—and they’d tried, he’d as good as admitted it—when they saw him in this shiny new body. Someone had definitely kissed Captain America—probably a lot of someones—but they hadn’t kissed _Steve._ .They hadn’t taken care of him. Of course not. They might’ve even noticed and blamed themselves, because no one would think Captain America truly did not know how to kiss well, that he wasn’t charming anyone intentionally, that he wouldn’t know seduction if it bit him on the ass. It was a bit sad, on the one hand, but on the other it was incredibly _Steve._ Not knowing how to do something didn’t stop him from trying his best. He just needed someone to show him what to do—one particular someone, most of the time. Bucky felt himself smiling into the kiss. _Nothing changes._

Overcoming hesitation, he reached up, cradling Steve’s jaw, caressing the side of his face, fingers skimming his hairline. The girls he’d been with usually liked that. To his relief, Steve leaned into it slightly, let Bucky take control. He was still stiff and hesitant, just like Bucky was, but—he was trying. They were both trying.

Bucky looked down for a second, breaking the kiss, and Steve did too. He opened his mouth to say something—probably an apology, from the look on his face—but Bucky shook his head. He wasn’t done trying yet, just thinking.

Then Bucky drew him in again, a longer, slower kiss—both of them still wary and unsure, but a little more confident, because, well, neither of them had pulled away yet. It was awkward and Bucky’s neck was starting to ache because kissing someone taller was _strange,_ and Steve still didn’t know what to do with his tongue, but the basics were the same. There was warmth and breath and pressure and comfort. There was maybe even a little fun. Bucky could almost forget the fact that he was kissing his best friend in a forest thousands of miles from home in the middle of the biggest war the world had ever seen.

And then Steve made a small, needy sound—too breathy to be a moan, too vocal for a sigh. Bucky shuddered in response, and something shifted.  

They went from detached to desperate in a moment—both of them undeniably and inexplicably frantic. Steve was kissing him like both their lives depended on it. Bucky pressed in to slot one leg between Steve’s. Steve groaned and hauled him in closer, one hand still cradling his neck, the other snaking around his back. Bucky arched even closer against him, hips rocking—

The wind gusted through the trees and, somewhere, a branch snapped, rattling loudly down to earth, where it landed in a clattering crash of dry leaves. The sound startled them both, and they broke apart, breathless and dazed.

“Well,” Steve said, eyes wide. “I guess _that_ won’t be a problem.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, unable to take his eyes off Steve’s lips.

Steve grinned, the first real, jubilant, little-shit grin that Bucky had seen on him since— Well. Take your pick. The first true Steve Rogers grin that he’d seen on this new-old face, since the rescue, on this continent, since Steve had met Peggy Carter. The first time since he’d decided _kissing_ that grinning face was an option.

When they pulled back again, Steve looked a bit like he’d been thumped on the head, and Bucky couldn’t help feeling smug. He had the _energy_ to feel smug. He felt more human than he had since he’d entered Zola’s lab, since the battle in which they were captured, even.

“So,” Steve said, resting his forehead against Bucky’s. His breath was awful. Bucky didn’t care. “That ‘we don’t have to do it again’ you mentioned….”

Some of the tension came seeping back in. “Yeah?”

“I’d like to.” Steve was hesitant, somehow. Bucky just closed his eyes and smiled.

“Yeah? Me too.”

“We’ll have to talk about it,” Steve said. “Sometime. If it’s more than a few times.”

“Doesn’t change anything,” Bucky repeated. “We’ll be careful. We’ll have to not get caught. But we’re—we’re still us, right?”

“‘Til the end of the line,” Steve agreed.

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Not a lot to talk about, then.”

The look Steve gave him was more like the looks he generally gave Steve, but Bucky didn’t care. Yeah, it wasn’t quite that simple, but they’d figure it out.

He straightened up and threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders. It really hadn’t been that long, but someone would eventually notice Captain America’s absence. “Let’s get back to camp.” Then he paused. The angle was wrong. “When Stark and Erskine did their highly classified whatever-it-was, could they have stopped, oh, two inches shorter? This is going to get uncomfortable.”

Steve snorted and the two of them set off under the branches. Steve was smiling more freely, _moving_ more freely, than he had been. Years of keeping an eye out for hidden symptoms and injuries had made Bucky acutely aware of such things. For himself . . . well, he still felt like shit. But the looming dread of the last few days had receded and a different, better tension had taken its place. He felt like _himself,_ like his skin fit right, and that was an improvement.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We may discover_   
>  _That we could be lovers_   
>  _So kiss me under the moonlight_   
>  _Won't you, Steve?_
> 
>  
> 
> \--["Steve,"](https://genius.com/Jeremy-messersmith-steve-lyrics) Jeremy Messersmith (a real song about offering to kiss your best friend presumably not written about Captain America)


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh-eight-hundred, Captain,” she said. Then she was gone, striding purposefully out the door. Steve watched her go, still a little bit awed. When he turned away, Buck was already looking back at him.
> 
> “Steve,” Bucky said, eyebrows raised, “I know you’re a moron, but ‘not interested’ doesn’t look like _that_.”

 

LONDON, DAYS LATER

“Told you,” Steve said as he entered the back section of the bar. “They’re all idiots.” He took a seat by Bucky, who was drinking something he could smell from here. Not that that meant anything in particular, the way he smelled things now, but it also smelled like it could peel paint.

“What about you?” he asked more quietly. Bucky had said he wanted to stay that night in the woods, but he hadn’t officially given his decision. Steve needed to make sure Bucky knew he had a choice, that he wouldn’t hold him to what he’d said just after being rescued. A lot could change in a week. They’d arrived in London that morning and Steve had immediately been rushed off to a series of highly classified meetings as the leader of a secret strike team. A week ago, he’d been a stage act.

A really bad one.

Bucky seemed more  _there_ now than he had on the march back from Azzano, but Steve could tell he was drained. He put on the stage voice. “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

“Hell no,” Bucky said at once. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight—I’m following him.” He held Steve’s gaze for a second before lifting his glass again, and Steve looked down so he didn’t say anything stupid. He heard what Bucky meant in that, the loyalty and faith and trust:  _I know_ **_you._**

He nodded at the bartender to get a drink of his own. Bucky leaned in closer. “You’re keeping the outfit, right?”

Steve snorted, using the joke as a cover for his smile. “You know what? It’s kinda growing on me.”

He caught a flicker of wry amusement and something else in Bucky’s eyes, but a disturbance—or rather, a lack of one—drew both their attention. The raucous singing in the front room of the bar had died down. A second later, Peggy Carter stepped into the room, wearing a stunning red dress. Steve tried very hard not to care and failed miserably. “Captain,” she said coolly.

“Agent Carter,” Steve returned, feeling, absurdly, caught-out.

“Ma’am,” Bucky said. She completely ignored him. Steve’s irrational worry jumped up a notch.

“Howard has some equipment for you to try,” Peggy said, walking up to Steve. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good.”

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty,” she added wryly. The intoxicated singing had resumed at full volume and in several different keys.

Steve froze, caught between the urge to make a joke and the impulse to apologize. Bucky rescued him.

“You don’t like music?” he asked, with a shadow of his former charming smile. She cast him a brief glance, then looked right back at Steve.  _Meaningfully._

“I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

What? She was obviously referring to— But that made no  _sense._

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bucky intervened again. He was making himself look like an obnoxious jerk for Steve’s sake, and Steve couldn’t do anything to fix it because he had  _no idea_ what was going on.

“The right partner,” Peggy said simply, still looking at Steve.  _Yes,_ he thought, still frozen,  _I get it, I know what you’re talking about—but_ ** _what_  ** _are you_ ** _talking_  ** _about?_   He was being  _respectful,_ he was—

“Oh-eight-hundred, Captain,” she said, and turned to go.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said automatically. “I’ll be there.”

Then she was gone, striding purposefully out the door. Steve watched her go, still a little bit awed. When he turned away, Buck was already looking back at him, his face every bit as baffled and unsettled as Steve felt. His eyes flicked to the people around them. Right. No one was explicitly watching, but they still kind of had an audience.

“I’m invisible,” Bucky said. It was meant to be a joke, Steve could tell, but it came out a little flat. Oh well. Anyone watching could take it for sheer jealousy. “I’m turning into you,” Bucky added, with a bit more life in his voice. “ It’s like some horrible dream.”

“Don’t take it so hard,” Steve said, as Bucky had said to him so many times. “Maybe she has a friend.” That got him a huff of genuine laughter as they sat back down, heads close together once more. Bucky’s brow furrowed and his mouth twisted, but no words came out. Steve shrugged helplessly.  _I don’t know either, pal._

“Steve,” Bucky said, eyebrows raised, “I know you’re a moron, but ‘not interested’ doesn’t look like  _that.”_

“I know!” Steve hissed. “I just—I don’t— Help.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’ve got nothing.” Then he paused. “I mean, unless—unless she and Stark, uh, were interested—” He made a complicated gesture between Steve and the door Agent Carter had just exited by.

It took a second.

“Oh God,” Steve groaned, sure he was turning beet red. “No.”

“You sure? You said he was involved in the whole . . .” Bucky waved at Steve—“thing, right? Maybe he wants to see what the Vita-Rays can do.”

Ears burning, Steve took a large gulp of his whiskey to avoid answering as Bucky laughed to himself. “No,” he said again, quietly but forcefully, when he put it down. “They got enough—data—back that first week. And he might be, you know, indulgent, but I think it’s more about going places and buying stuff than— and I don’t think Agent Carter’s the kind who shares.” The last sentence slipped out without much thought, but a lot more conviction than the rest. Bucky was looking at him with a softer expression than he’d had so far this evening.

“I’m just giving you a hard time, you know.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, wondering about that expression—and, suddenly, finding it hard to keep his eyes off Bucky’s lips. “I know.”

“So.” Bucky sat up a bit straighter and took another drink. When he put the glass down, he was suddenly businesslike. “I guess that changes the plan for tonight.”

“What?” Steve looked up in alarm. His eyes flicked around the bar, but no one was close enough to overhear. He kept forgetting that his hearing was  _better_ than everyone else’s now, not worse. “Why?”

“Because,” Bucky said, looking at him like he was an idiot, “you’ve got the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen looking at you like she wants to eat you, and she can’t do that if I’m in your room.” He shrugged. “You got something mixed up between the two of you, but I bet you can figure it out. Just don’t do anything stupid, and you can have—”

“Bucky—”

Bucky just kept talking, the casual tone not distracting Steve from the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You can have everything the way you wanted it. Clear things up. I’ll just find a new—”

 _“Bucky.”_  

He stopped talking. Steve almost reached out, stopping at the last moment—too intimate in public, even here—and instead tapped a finger on the table between them for emphasis. “I thought we agreed. That we both wanted to. Um.”

“We did,” Bucky said immediately, voice low, face serious. “But that was ‘cause someone ought to appreciate you. Now you’ve got someone better to do it. And don’t worry about me,” he added, when Steve opened his mouth. “I’m a lot better than I was. You can have everything the way you wanted it.”

Steve shifted on his stool. He’d been thinking about this a lot, and he’d meant to bring it up tonight anyway. “That might have been what I wanted a few days ago,” he said, watching Bucky’s reaction carefully as his heart sped up. “But now I want something else, too.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. His hand tightened ever so slightly on his glass. His face went still, like he was covering something, but Steve knew his friend. That half-hidden expression wasn’t disgust—it was  _relief._

“Yeah?” Bucky said unsteadily. He looked up at Steve from under a loose wisp of dark hair, and it was unexpectedly endearing. “You sure about that, pal?”

“Yes,” Steve said.

Bucky licked his lips, and Steve had to glance away and take a deep breath. When he looked back, Bucky was smirking. “Alright.”

~

It was raining, a very fine misty rain, as they walked back to Steve’s room. Bucky tried to turn down the wrong street, but Steve caught his arm.

“Hold on, the hotel is this way.”

“That’s right—the Howlies are down there, but Captain America gets the fancy digs.”

“Not that fancy,” Steve said dryly. “I gotta share with this one jerk I know.”

Bucky’s voice went low, low enough anyone more than a foot away couldn’t make it out. “Speaking of that. How far do you see this going, Rogers?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Steve confessed. “I just—I  _want.”_

“Me too,” Bucky said. “Uh—”

“Same as before,” Steve said quickly. “If either of us doesn’t like it—”

“Yeah.”

They walked in silence for a minute. Then Bucky asked, voice rough, “Not  _exactly,_ you said. What  _do_ you want? What do you  _know_ you . . .  _?_ ”

“I want—” Steve felt himself flush. “I want to touch you.” It was next to impossible to get the words out. “Want to make you feel good. Want to see you happy and know that I did that,” he added, sudden and fierce, surprised by the almost possessive desire to stop that distant, haunted look Bucky got now, to be  _the reason_ he wasn’t lost. “I want to do that. But, uh, what do you want?”

A group of people hurried past in the opposite direction. Steve and Bucky both went silent as they approached.

“I don’t know either,” Bucky said finally, after they went by. “Just . . . more. Could just be more kissing. Just—something that’ll remind me that I’m me and you’re you.”

“That doesn’t change,” Steve said, stopping and pulling him aside with an easy tug on his arm, so much different from before. “That never changes. Whatever else . . . That—”

Bucky gripped his forearm, eyes dark. “We better get to the hotel, pal, ‘cause you keep talking like that and I  _will_ kiss you.”

Steve shivered convulsively. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, alright.”

~~~

In the hotel room, they stopped and looked at each other.

They hadn’t had time or privacy to do anything or talk about any of this since that night in the woods. Even setting up the night’s sleeping arrangements had been conducted in public (“yeah, fine, I’m used to your snoring”). The rest of it, making sure they were mostly on the same page, had been done in raised eyebrows and muttered asides.

“So,” Steve said finally. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I—I don’t think this is just, y’know, for lack of better options. Not for me. And since we said if either of us doesn’t like it, um, is that— I just need you to know that.”

“I kind of put that together at the bar,” Bucky reminded him.

“And?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Steve swallowed. “Is it like that for you, too?”

Bucky sighed and sat down on the bed. “I don’t know. I can’t tell.” He stared at the floor. “I know I never felt like this about you or any other guy before. Part of me thinks this is just the easiest way to not feel like I’m losing my mind, you know? That it’s not about anything kissing’s normally about. And if I ever get back to normal I won’t want to anymore.” He looked up at Steve briefly, then back down, lips pressed together. “Sorry.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what—when Bucky went on.

“But I wouldn’t want to do anything with anyone else right now. I don’t know what that means. And part of me doesn’t care, and part of me”—he looked up, and if there was helpless bafflement on his face, there was hunger there, too, and a trace of amusement. “Part of me wants you to stop talking so I can take you to bed. Even if I don’t have a clue what that means.”

 _Fuck._ Steve’s whole body went white-hot. Could you be so flustered it hurt? Was that possible? Or was this something else?

“I don’t think we should start with that,” he croaked. “Since neither of us knows exactly what—”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I know. Just—can we stop  _talking_ and start— _something?”_

“We probably ought to talk about it some more, though,” Steve said, because apparently teasing Bucky was something he could do even when his head wasn’t working right.

Maybe especially when his head wasn’t working right.

Bucky stood up, slow and deliberate, the familiar exasperated  _Really, Steve?_ look on his face. Steve grinned.

“You’re a menace,” Bucky said.

“Yep.”

“But you’re right. We ought to talk about Carter.”

“...Yeah.”

“You sure you don’t want me to leave?”

Steve looked him up and down. There was tension in the way he held himself and the tilt of his head, an intensity to his gaze that Steve hadn’t seen before. It was all new, but all unmistakably  _Bucky,_ and being the object of that focus was new but familiar too. “Positive.”

“Oh, thank God,” Bucky said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

He’d been kissed a lot on the USO circuit by excited fans. There were mostly two ways it happened: a flustered, giggly, embarrassed peck on the cheek and a dramatic smack on the lips. Both were entirely for show and for both of them he just need to be there. No;  _Captain America_ needed to be there. Steve might as well not exist, and very much wanted not to.

Being kissed by Bucky wasn’t like that at all. It was complicated and slow and required his attention, and he gave it gladly. Kissing Bucky was like old jokes and coffee and endless card games, trying to out-cheat one another. It was comfortable and comforting.

~~~

Being ambushed by Private Lorraine, he thought the next day, was not comforting. It was, in fact, slightly terrifying.

And then it got worse.

~~~

“Bucky,” Steve said urgently, bursting into their hotel room and locking the door behind him. “Bucky, I screwed up.”’

“What?” Bucky looked up in alarm.

“No, nobody knows about— _that._ I just— I— Okay, so the big thing is, Agent Carter shot at me….”

“She  _what?"_

“And I kind of deserved it,” he said, because, to be fair, he did. But, also to be fair, only kind of. “Not for what she thought, I didn’t start it, what’s-her-name kissed  _me—"_

“What.”

“But, y’know, I guess she was right because I  _was_ doing something else, uh,” he gestured at Bucky and the bed, feeling heat prickle in his face, “but I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to because— She and Stark aren’t like that, it turns out, I just misunderstood—”

Bucky set down the gun he was cleaning. “Now  _that_ doesn’t surprise me. Steve, can you slow down and tell this story from the beginning? Or no, tell me what—she  _shot_ at you?”

“At the shield,” Steve said, shrugging. “Howard made a big, round—anyway, it’s bulletproof. She wasn’t aiming at  _me,_ I was just holding it.”

“Beginning. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Many thanks to [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien) for insightful and encouraging beta work right up to the last minute. You can also thank her for encouraging me to include this coda and give things a bit more room to resolve (or begin to blossom, as the case may be). 
> 
> Thanks again to [StovenBucket ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stoven) for the beautiful art and the premise. I was familiar with [the song ](https://genius.com/Jeremy-messersmith-steve-lyrics) Stoven mentioned in the prompt, and had vaguely wanted to make a Steve/Bucky story related to it for quite a while, but could never come up with a point in the Captain America timeline for it to happen. Stoven's prompt gave me a way to explore both a very interesting couple of days _and_ a relationship dynamic that isn't slow-burn mutual pining. "I'm your best friend, there's nothing that I wouldn't try" is a very different jumping-off point than "I've been in love with you all my life." Thank you for the opportunity to play with it! 
> 
> To pre-empt anyone who might ask, I'm not entirely sure if this story is about Steve and Bucky falling in love; Steve and Bucky independently inventing the concept of friends with benefits; or Steve and Bucky doing something harder to label. I'm not sure because _they’re_ not sure (although Steve might have an idea). I wrote it for the "might as well try" aspect; read it as you will. :)


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